Six Shades of Blond
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: For a long time, Jessie had wondered what attracted her to James––his looks, or him. And when she finds herself asking him to stop dyeing his hair, she realizes that, perhaps, she really is as shallow as people say.


**SIX SHADES OF BLOND**

**Summary: **For a long time, Jessie had wondered what attracted her to James––his looks, or _him_. And when she finds herself asking him to stop dyeing his hair, she realizes that, perhaps, she really is as shallow as people say.

**Author's Note: **I don't really think James is blond, in an anime world where every color is a natural shade of hair. But I guess it does look sort of off, and he looks good in those several blonde girl wigs he wears in disguises. And this is about as RocketShippy as I can get for this one. I'm working on another longer story that gets Jess and James up close to each other, but I need to strengthen my gut for that. These stories might seem weaker than my other ones, since I don't support RocketShipping, but I'm trying, and it's fun to loosen up with different characters.

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><p>Jessie could not remember ever believing that there was a color more lovely than a rich, silky blond. Perhaps she had constructed this infatuation from her mother's vivid descriptions of Jessie's handsome father, who was blond; maybe her love for the color had originated from her fancies toward her male classmates in her early years of grade school. It could have even come from jealousy: each blonde girl she had seen was lovely, with the most delicate complexion and a ruddiness she could never achieve through even the most effective of cosmetics. But she really didn't know from where the passion had stemmed, and she was not concerned about that trivial aspect of her indecision.<p>

This pattern of thought led her to wonder just exactly _why _she considered James to be somewhat attractive. It certainly wasn't because of his hair––rather than boasting those thick, cascading buttery locks that she so loved, he had coarse strands of a weak lavender shade that hung limply around his face. All Jessie could compliment on was that the color drew her attention to James's eyes, which were of a rather smooth, glossy emerald hue.

And she didn't much care for green. It reminded her of sickness and seaweed. She thought her own blue eyes were exceedingly beautiful––such a mesmerizing, marbled cerulean and framed with the thickest curled lashes. If James had eyes like her own, then maybe she would not have had any qualms over thinking of him as being handsome. But he didn't.

Even if his eyes were viridian and his hair pastel lilac, she would not have paid much attention to it had he claimed a tall, tapered figure, with wide shoulders for resting her hands on and narrow hips for her to wrap her legs around. But Jessie would reluctantly admit that even _she _sported more muscle matter than he did. He was pathetically thin, built small and short––almost girlishly so.

She hated that about him. She couldn't think of any of his features that made him seem truly, honestly appealing––so why was it that, whenever she envisioned his face, her mental gaze swept hungrily over his velvety skin and soft mouth?

Sickened by these thoughts, Jessie angrily stabbed the small silver needle through the hem of the denim skirt she was mending. She had grown adept at the chore of sewing, not by choice, but because it had to be done everyday. After nearly every hike through the dense forests that were so prevalent in the Johto region, it was inevitable that either she or James would soon complain of a torn garment. Her fingers moved quickly over the heavy fabric of her skirt, the needle darting in and out, guided by her thumb––she became entranced by the hypnotizing motion of her own hand, and soon, the guilty rage that had been swirling through her stomach subsided.

"Jessie?" The ancient, battered floorboards creaked warningly, and Jessie glanced up, pausing in her task with her fingers suspended above the skirt. In the doorway, James cowered nervously, holding a rumpled pair of grass-smudged slacks.

"Don't tell me you want those fixed," she snapped, her tone steely. James stepped backwards, raising his hands as if to ward off a physical attack, and Jessie noticed that his slender hands were quivering. She felt a pang of regret spread through her nerves, but instead of apologizing for her rudeness, she jerked her head down to stare at the seam of her miniskirt. The only sound in the small parlor was the steady clicking of her long nails against the needle, and after only a moment, James crept closer, seeming to be fearful of suffocating in the tangible quietness of the atmosphere. He timidly lowered himself to the worn sofa cushion, and crossed his ankles; wrinkling the baggy material of his oversized shirt between his fingers, he tightened his shoulders, waiting for Jessie to scold him for having ripped the side of his uniform pants.

But as the minutes crawled by, his posture relaxed, and the tension that had knotted behind his forehead easily loosened. Jessie appeared to not even acknowledge his presence, and that comforted him somehow. He watched absentmindedly as she calmly pulled the thread through the dress she was repairing, but the more intensely that he observed her sharp, hasty movements, the more jerky and shaky they became. Soon, she was yanking the needle back and forth, putting so much force into her action that the thread broke free with an audible twang.

"James," she abruptly said, forcing his name past her clenched teeth, "what color is your hair?"

The question was so unexpected and inappropriate for Jessie's current attitude that James was thoroughly startled. He leaned into the back of the sofa with fright, and self-consciously burrowed his finger into his disarray of uncombed tangles.

"I––I––I, um, isn't it blue?" he stammered anxiously, his scalp beginning to itch under the magnitude of Jessie's hard, metallic glare. He immediately sensed that he had given the wrong answer, but instead of attempting to correct himself, he looked at the tattered woven rug spread over the floor and sucked his lip into his mouth. He chewed on the flesh pensively, and finally, he peered up at Jessie through the long fiber of hair that fell over his brow. She was still regarding him with an expression of suppressed rage, and her fingers twitched, almost as if she was ready to crunch her fists and bark at him to ready himself.

"I started tinting it back when I was in the bicycle gang," he admitted weakly. "It used to be an atrocious blond."

Jessie felt her backbone stiffen, and her wrists ached suddenly. The half-mended skirt seemed weightless on her lap, and she gaped at James in a state of dumbfounded speechlessness. Her knees were cold; she could scarcely summon enough will to shift in her seat, away from the draft that ghosted over her legs.

_I knew it, _she thought dazedly, her tongue lying flat in her mouth, pressing against her gritted teeth. _I knew that there was something about him... that I couldn't quite place._

"Jess?" James's voice was gentle, but concerned, as he squinted at her quaking form. "What's wrong?"

"You...," she began, and struggled to swallow the constriction that clutched her throat. "Why did you color it?"

Relieved that her problem was minor, he lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug of nonchalance, and the worried crease on the bridge of his nose smoothed into nonexistence.

"I'm not sure," he carelessly murmured. "I guess maybe because someone... someone told me he couldn't stand blonds. I would do anything to make him happy, so I tinted it this ridiculous shade of blue. That was really foolish of me, wasn't it?"

He broke off into a laugh so rippled by remorseful embarrassment that it sounded more like a quavering sob.

Jessie's eyelids sank to cover half her turquoise irises, and she slowly leaned over the arm of her chair to retrieve a spool of white thread from the sewing basket. She tediously unwound it, each motion long and drawn out as she contemplated on this new information.

"I think that maybe... maybe you should stop bleaching it," she suggested, a tremor sending shivers through her voice. She winced at her feeble tone––normally, her speech was loud and booming, clearly signaling her demand to be the authoritative leader.

"Why?" James tucked his hands behind his neck, awkwardly pulling his untidy mop of hair into a short tail that rested on his nape. He could almost taste an impending insult or threat––surely Jessie would tell him that she would cut his hair off if he did not obey her. But she remained silent, her eyes fixed on his crooked fringe.

"I think it would look better," she cautiously clarified. "Because... because... I––I just think that such a prissy purplish color isn't becoming on a man."

Satisfied by her recovery, she resumed sewing, some indescribable emotion swelling lightly in the core of her chest. There was only a small measure of truth in her jeer––she really didn't think it mattered if James thought the pastel hue was befitting. _She _would rather him be the blond that she now knew he was, and it was only fair for her to receive what she desired every once in a while.

But as she looked up, she was astonished to realize that James did not echo her reasoning. His lips were pressed together in a grim line, and his eyes glistened with wounded pride. His cheeks appeared to glow beneath the powdery flush of indignation toward Jessie's antagonism; if he started to cry, Jessie would be stricken with the urge to smack her palm against his face.

"What's _your _problem?" she asked scornfully, every particle of her confidence returning now that James was in the position of feeling helpless. She twisted her mouth into a pout of superiority, and made a show of figuratively feasting on James's distraught agitation.

"It's just that... well, I only kept my hair like this because I thought that... you liked it," he whimpered miserably. "I don't want to keep it this color if you think its ugly and girly."

Jessie vaguely ignored his mewling, and dipped the needle into the skirt skillfully. Her heart rattled viciously against her ribs––was this the effect that James's pitiful whines had on her? The bulge expanding in her abdomen just couldn't be regret.

_Is it real? _she wondered, biting her tongue guiltily. _It can't be that I feel bad for_ _him, even though he's hidden his blond hair from me. This feeling can't mean anything. It's based on his blond hair, and that's all there is to everything. _

_But no matter what color it is, I'll still be thinking about it. And I won't ever be able to stop._

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>The guy that James was trying to impress by dyeing his hair can be whomever you want, his father or that weird bicycle gang leader that he was flirting with in one of those episodes. Sorry for Jessie's attitude, too, I just assume that she'd be more interested in James's looks than anything. But my next RocketShipping thingie will hopefully be nicer to them. This one was just a test drive to see if I didn't puke. And I didn't. I laughed.


End file.
